“So, Bobbie, what’s your favorite hobby?” asked one of the judges.
“Well, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I love listening to Mötley Crüe and drinking Dr Pepper, primarily for its health benefits.”
The audience clapped and roared, entertained by my tomfoolery. In between rounds, the very effeminate gentleman who was directing the pageant pulled me and my mom to one side.
“Mrs. LeSage, I love your girl Bobbie, but that dress—it’s killing me,” he whispered.
I glanced down at my heavy, dark green frock that, truth be told, did have a certain Wednesday Addams feel. Luckily, my mom had thought to bring a backup, a sequined puffy-sleeved prom dress that had a plunging neckline and clung to my body in all the right places. The pageant director beamed when I emerged from the dressing room.
“Bravo, Bobbie, you look just like Krystle Carrington.”
When I stepped back onstage, everyone gasped, especially Shannon Parker, who could not believe what she was about to see—Boobless Bobbie Brown winning the very first beauty pageant she had ever entered. I blinked in surprise as they handed me the trophy and named me Miss Louisiana Teen USA, 1987. At just seventeen, I was a real-life beauty queen—and I hadn’t even had to try very hard.
Winning the competition was half blessing, half curse. It made me realize I might actually have a shot as a model, a shot at being somebody. The kind of girl who deserved a real Prince Charming, one who didn’t cheat like T-Boy, and wasn’t mean and drunk, like my dad. But the downside of being declared the prettiest girl in Louisiana is that all of a sudden, people start treating you differently. I wasn’t mentally prepared for it, because in reality, I didn’t actually believe I was the prettiest girl in Louisiana. I couldn’t believe how seriously everyone else was taking it. It was just a little local competition, after all! But the girls who I’d thought were my friends started whispering all kinds of things about me behind my back. And the guys—well if they weren’t humping on my leg, they were running from me like they were scared. Worst of all, Mona, Shannon, Lacey—my best girlfriends—thought I was getting too big for my boots and froze me out. That was one long, lonely winter, I can tell you. I tried not to let things get me down, even though I still had trouble comprehending why everyone was making such a fuss about me winning. I had the big competition ahead of me at the end of the summer—Miss Teen USA. I wondered how everyone would treat me after that, and reminded myself that it didn’t really matter if I won. All that mattered was getting some kind of modeling contract so I could at least leave Baton Rouge, find my rock star, and live a fun and glamorous life like Paulina.
TEEN QUEEN
My mother was always encouraging, always supportive, and took great care of me. From grooming to trips to the dentist to dance class, she was always on top of things. As soon as I was old enough, she took me to get my first Pap smear. To our horror, the results came back positive—abnormal cells indicated that I had early-stage cervical cancer. “You’re very lucky we caught it so early,” said the doctors. They said they would need to operate to cut out the cancer, and ended up removing half of my cervix. They said that I would probably never be able to have children as a result of the surgery. When I returned from the hospital, my mother and I cried together. She told me that it didn’t matter what the doctors said; only God could decide if I was supposed to have babies or not.
“Should I still go to Miss Teen USA?” I asked my mom, holding back the tears.
“Most definitely,” she said. “The show must go on.”
Come July, me and my momma said hello to the big West Texas moon that shone bright over El Paso the night of the biggest teen pageant in America. The competition was as fierce as the July heat: fifty-one girls from all over the U.S., between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, all competing for the title of Miss Teen USA. I made friends with Kristi Lynn Addis, Miss Mississippi, and she was a doll. We helped zip up each other’s dresses for the evening gown competition, and tucked in each other’s bathing suit labels. Backstage, we gave each other good-luck hugs before lining up for the big show, which was being televised live across the United States. Our gowns ranged from pouffy to pouffier to pouffiest (this was 1987, after all, the year style forgot), and the El Paso Youth Symphony Orchestra played a classical rendition of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” as we prepared to step on the stage.
Bobbie is five foot eight inches tall and weighs one hundred seventeen pounds, said the announcer.
I strutted across the stage, a prom night explosion in salmon pink, shoulder puffs so big you could have hidden a small child in each. My hair was sprayed into a formal chignon, my bangs were tall, and my smile was wider than the Rio Grande. I couldn’t believe the size of the audience—I’d never seen so many people in one room before.
Then I had to impress the judges with my interview skills. All the girls donned identical skintight acid-wash jeans with sporty jackets. Miss California was up first. She bragged about not having to work to get good grades. Miss North Dakota said she wanted to open boutiques in New York, Paris, and L.A., forgetting that she was talking to a Texan crowd. Then it was my turn.
So, Miss Louisiana, what would you like to be when you grow up?
“Well, I’ve always wanted to be a successful model, travel, and make the best of my life . . . and if I can’t be a professional model and succeed at what I want to do, I have college plans afterward,” I lied.
What would you say to a young girl who says she wants to be a model?
“Just to be herself. . . . Enjoy every moment and smile pretty and big.”
Do you have an agent yet?
“No. I need one, though.” (Laughs from the audience)
What kind of agent are you looking for?
“One that can get me work.” (More laughs)
Again, I was just being myself and not trying too hard. And it seemed to work. The judges named me second runner-up and gave my buddy Kristi from Mississippi the Miss Teen USA crown. I couldn’t have been happier. Just knowing I had made the top five was faith-affirming enough to keep me giggling all the way to the airport. When my mom and I boarded that flight back to Baton Rouge, we had no idea what was waiting for us at home—nearly a dozen messages from modeling agencies. Hollywood, apparently, had been watching.
REAL MEN WEAR EYELINER
A few weeks later, my mother and I flew out to Los Angeles to meet some of those prospective agents and managers. The traffic crawled along Sunset Boulevard as kids congregated outside the clubs: the Rainbow, Gazzarri’s, the Roxy, the Whisky. It was like a big glam rock street party, guys with guitar cases and leather jackets strolling up and down between the big clubs, while girls who looked like strippers handed out fliers. These kids weren’t hippies, and they weren’t greasers—they were something new, like magnificently plumed birds in skintight pants, tiger print, spandex, and red leather. My heart pounded as I gazed at all these guys, each one the spitting image of Vince Neil, Axl Rose, or (swoon) Tommy Lee. My mom, naturally, was horrified. “I mean, what kind of man goes out wearing makeup?” she tutted when we got back to our hotel. “Mom, that’s the whole point—if you’re a real man, you can wear eyeliner and get away with it.” But she seemed far less enamored with Hollywood than I.
“Honey, are you sure you want to move here?” she asked. I felt sure that I did. Hollywood was where I could really live the life of a model. Not Baton Rouge. “I’ll be okay, Mom, I promise. I’m tough, remember?” My mom nodded, and we signed with an agency called East West later the next day. I couldn’t wait to get started, but my mom said I had to finish high school first. So back we went to Baton Rouge, which, compared to Hollywood, felt downright quaint now.
I got a job at Body Masters, a new gym Mr. Earl opened with my mom’s brothers Jimmy and Wayne. It was while working reception there that I met Kenny, a rich kid who, like me, had dreams of escaping Baton Rouge. He sang in a rock band and had a long mullet and a mustache. When I told him I was going to move to Los Angeles,
his eyes lit up beneath his frizzy bangs.
“Let’s go together, Bobbie,” he said. “I’ll be a rock star, and you can be my super-hot girlfriend.” I was nineteen, he was twenty-six, and we were definitely on the same page. A few months later we hit the road with a carful of clothes, headed west toward Sunset.
Chapter Four
SEARCHING FOR A STAR
“Well, don’t you look pretty,” said O. J. Simpson, standing next to me at the bar, sizing me up like I was the evening’s special. Maybe it had something to do with the tight black-and-white minidress I was wearing, but the men were swarming me like flies on shit—Eddie Murphy had introduced himself not five minutes ago, Scott Baio was staring at my ass like it was his long-lost puppy, and now this guy. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Thank you so much,” I said, flashing my biggest Southern smile before heading back to the dance floor, a triple vodka cocktail in each hand. One was for me, and the other was for my guy, Kenny. I looked around trying to find him. We were at Helena’s, a private supper club in Hollywood, whose members included Jack Nicholson and Madonna. It was an intimate mingle zone for the rich, famous, and beautiful. Being neither rich, nor famous, nor beautiful, Kenny always felt insecure when I brought him to Helena’s. I figured triple shots would help.
“Here, babe, drink up!”
“Did you just give O. J. Simpson your phone number, Bobbie?” asked Kenny, snatching his glass from me, his eyes despondent.
“That was O. J. Simpson?” I said, glancing back at the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Since arriving in Los Angeles, everything had felt effortless. Hollywood values youth and beauty above all—as a young model with a contract, I was automatically on the list at every hot club in town; the bookers at my agency just told me where to go and who to ask for at the door. Within days, I was cutting lines and breezing through velvet ropes without a thought. It was just part of the job, I figured. Those left waiting in line eyed me jealously. I had no idea how success-driven people are in Los Angeles. I had never had to work for my own, so I took it for granted from day one. Things were not working out as well for Kenny, though. Neither of us could understand why this town wasn’t falling in love with him the way it was with me. We had arrived only a few weeks ago, but already I was something of a scene queen. I had enlisted a group of super-babeish girlfriends from the modeling agency, and together we ruled the roost at Helena’s, with Kenny tagging along, letting me pay for his drinks at the bar.
Later that night, the R & B singer Bobby Brown came dancing up to me. “Hey, Bobbie Brown, you wanna dance with Bobby Brown?” he said. We danced for a while, and he seemed interested in continuing the conversation, but I politely took my leave. I had arrived with Kenny, and I would leave with Kenny. Maybe it was something they taught me at White Gloves and Party Manners class in New Orleans—but I simply abhorred cheating. Nobody ever said a little flirting wasn’t allowed, but I wasn’t about to go around giving out my number.
Helena’s was owned by 1970s cult actress Helena Kallianiotes, known for playing a butch lesbian hitchhiker opposite Jack Nicholson in the movie Five Easy Pieces and an aggressive Roller Derby girl in Kansas City Bomber. Her supper club was a Hollywood fantasyland—not that you’d know from the exterior, until the Ferraris and Rolls-Royces would start lining up at around 10 P.M. Madonna and her then husband, Sean Penn, would be served dinner under a canopy by waiters dressed all in white. Susan Sarandon and Cher would make conversation with Rob Lowe and other Brat Packers. I danced with Judd Nelson, smoked cigars with Harry Dean Stanton, shared lipstick with Melanie Griffith, and talked poetry with her husband, Don Johnson. (I had been writing poems for years, so we shared that in common.) I fit so easily into the scene at Helena’s, it was hard for me to remember my “other” life, as a small-time pageant queen in Baton Rouge. My unself-conscious flair for conversation and my relaxed energy made me stand out from the crowd of insecure, overambitious model-actress-whatevers. Having been schooled in Southern manners and etiquette so early in life, I knew how to charm the socks off anyone I was introduced to.
Not once did I stop to think about just how remarkable it was that I, Bobbie Jean Brown, should have so quickly and easily gained access to the most exclusive echelons of the Hollywood scene. In my mind, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. My don’t-give-a-fuck attitude was serving me well. I’d march up to the front of every line as though it was my God-given right, look the bouncer in the eye, and wink, with the confidence of a star who had already made it. And they would let me in, not because I was necessarily more beautiful than anyone else in line (L.A. is chock-full of beauty), but because of my fearlessness. Of course, this is only the kind of game that you can get away with for so long. Unless you back up the bullshit with some bona fide success, sooner or later, Hollywood will tire of the façade and swiftly, brutally put you back in your place.
Hollywood was bored with Kenny almost the second he arrived in town. He had very little charm behind those good looks, and absolutely nothing in common with Don Johnson, Melanie Griffith, or anyone else at Helena’s. He was out of his league, and no matter how many triple vodkas I brought him, it seemed like nothing could pull him out of his funk.
We were sharing a one-bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive in North Hollywood, in the sprawling superheated basin known as the San Fernando Valley, home to gum-snapping Valley girls, salon tanners, and porn stars. It was close enough to the action for me, just a ten-minute drive into the land known as “Hollywood,” encompassing the music venues and nightclubs of the Sunset Strip, the bars of West Hollywood, and the glitzy restaurants and hotels of Beverly Hills.
Los Angeles rewards youth, beauty, and balls—all of which I possessed by the boatload—so I started booking jobs almost the minute we arrived. These included my very first music video, for the song “I’m On to You” by a semipopular heavy metal band called Hurricane. “I’m On to You” was the only Top 40 hit Hurricane ever had, and when I found out, I shrugged, thinking, Of course. Everything I touched turned to gold. I was a young model in Hollywood, making friends, making money, and starting to hang out with rock stars. Everything was going according to plan. I couldn’t believe just how easy it was.
Look closely at that video, and you’ll notice my nose has a little bump in it. Also, my chest is nothing to write home about. But about two weeks after the shoot, my face and body had taken on new dimensions, thanks to a very nice plastic surgeon, whose services were paid for by my mom. I loved my brand-new D cups, but I knew there was no way I was ever going to be the next Cindy Crawford or Christie Brinkley. First, I was too short to be a supermodel, and now my figure was far too juicy for high fashion. I was sexy in a California surfer–girl next door kind of way, not a pinched New York runway model way. And I was okay with that. The L.A. look was hot, and it was so me—blond, bubbly, and rock ’n’ roll. This was the era of casual sporty chic, of L.A.-centric TV shows like Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place, and the poppy hair metal music exploding out of Hollywood was the hottest thing on the Billboard charts. I recalibrated my high-fashion aspirations and rebranded myself as the ultimate California babe, switching to a different agency, Flame, which specialized in a mainstream, commercial look. The gamble paid off—at Flame I found myself busier than before, with photo shoots, auditions, and test shoots, not to mention more music videos. To me, they were just another money gig, as workaday as a Sears catalog shoot. I never thought any of those shoots would make or break my career.
The second video I did was with a short-lived pop duo, Times Two, who were touring the country as Debbie Gibson’s opening act. I wore a tasseled black outfit and go-go danced in the video to their 1989 pop take on Simon & Garfunkel’s “Cecilia.” I’m ashamed to say, I had never even heard of Simon & Garfunkel. Or Times Two (which is more forgivable). Then the rock band Great White called, saying they wanted me for the video for “Once Bitten Twice Shy,” a cover of Ian Hunter’s (Mott the Hoople) original. It was a fun sh
oot. I got to play a hot groupie babe, sitting on the back of lead singer Jack Russell’s Harley, looking babeish with a bunch of other groupie babes while wearing a leather bra with studs. The song would become the band’s biggest hit, charting at number 5 on the Billboard Hot 100, earning them a Grammy nomination for Best Hard Rock Performance and some sell-out tours with Bon Jovi. But of course, I thought.
When Great White, now bona fide rock stars, called me back for a second video shoot for “House of Broken Love,” my job was to wear blue jeans and a white T-shirt, stand on a desert highway, and look lonesome. The shoot was less fun than the “Once Bitten” shoot—Jack Russell, the lead singer with a pair of lungs that rivaled Robert Plant’s, was starting to use drugs again and was having difficulty leaving his trailer. Nonetheless, the song was a hit, and gained me a little recognition, especially when they used my photo for the cover of the single.
Not long afterward, I shot the “Sittin’ in the Lap of Luxury” video with Louie Louie, who had played Madonna’s boyfriend in the video for “Borderline.” I could see why Madonna had chosen him for the job; he was one of the sexiest guys I had ever met, but as sweet as he was, he showed absolutely zero interest in me . Terence Trent D’Arby, on the other hand, was nothing but friendly when I was hired to dance in the video for his “It Feels So Good to Love Someone Like You.” He had apparently told the press that his debut record was “better than [the Beatles’] Sgt. Pepper.” A few years later his career tanked, so he changed his name to Sananda Maitreya and moved to Italy. Hollywood is a cruel mistress.
Dirty Rocker Boys Page 4